


flowers for sherlock

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Flowers, Graphic Description of Corpses, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, John-centric, Language of Flowers, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock's Funeral, Suicidal John Watson, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 06:18:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13048239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: John had not slept since the Fall. Blue followed him everywhere. Four days, three hours and twenty-two minutes ago, melting into a horrifically short decade or a disturbingly long minute. He did not know which one he preferred. One thing was sure, he could not close his eyes without seeing a body laid out before him, peacefully sleeping on the pavement, in shades of passion red, pure white and impossible blue. (He should have brought a pillow for the sleeping man.)





	flowers for sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I had last spring, and I re-wrote it to post it here, since the original was crappy but the idea was good! Also trying out a more lyrical/poetic style. 
> 
> The title is from Flowers for Algernon, only the title is borrowed, the stories have nothing in common (well, apart from leaving flowers on graves). 
> 
> The meaning of the flowers will be explained in the end note.
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> \- This is very, very, very angsty, but with a hopeful ending, since we (of course) know that Sherlock did not in fact kill himself.  
> \- This ficlet deals with suicidal thoughts/ideation coming from John, with reflections on life and death.  
> \- There is one particular statement (you'll know it when you'll get there) which can be shocking for some. John is obviously not in a good place when he says what he's saying, and it doesn't reflect what his usual-self would think, nor what I personally think.  
> \- There are some graphic descriptions of corpse decomposition.  
> \- If you have any question about this, you can message me (weneedtotalkaboutsherlock on tumblr), or in the comments.

John had not slept since the Fall. Blue followed him everywhere. Four days, three hours and twenty-two minutes ago, melting into a horrifically short decade or a disturbingly long minute. He did not know which one he preferred. One thing was sure, he could not close his eyes without seeing a body laid out before him, peacefully sleeping on the pavement, in shades of passion red, pure white and impossible blue. (He should have brought a pillow for the sleeping man.)

The irises he had brought at the funeral were only a pale imitation of it. There was only one blue, John knew. The lady at the store had said something about true friendship and hope, and John had nodded. Flowers, apparently, had meaning when his life did not.

The ceremony was fast and done in small comity. Molly was there, and she grabbed him under the elbow, as if he was ready to crumble on the ground at any moment. Maybe he was. She had brought chrysanthemums, and John did not try to understand what it meant. Greg took a day off to come too, with a bouquet of heather his wife probably chose for him, and of course, Mrs. Hudson was there too, having delivered an enormous composition of lilies and ferns that were twice her size. Mycroft came with nothing, and left as soon as possible.

John did not listen to a word that was said. Instead, he wondered how come he never bought flowers for Sherlock before it was too late.

 

***

 

The gardenias were white. The closest white John could get to the one he remembered, without much satisfaction. He put them against the gravestone, and the contrast made his heart want to escape his chest by ripping out of it.

White against black. Soft petals against cold stone. Life and death, but not really since nothing was truly black and white unless it was that coat and that skin and the flowers were dying anyway.

Flowers were most beautiful when dying.

"You looked lovely," John whispered, because that's what the gardenias meant and that's the only way he could tell him, really.

It was seven days now, and he still could not sleep. He had dozed off half a dozen times in the past few days, waking up almost instantly, fear clenching in his gut, the vision still there when he closed his eyes. He was sick of it. Sick of himself. He wanted to crawl out of his skin, to wilt away in the wind, because he knew that someone had just plucked him from the Earth and left him to die. It was a slow, slow process, one which he could not stop, one which he was terribly aware of. But right now, his only desire was to dig a hole in the ground and reach for him, reach for his rotting cadaver where putrefaction had already set in and eaten away half of his face. He wanted to curl up around him, drag the ground over their heads like a blanket, and sleep. He had no idea how much longer he could go without it.

"You looked lovely," he repeats, "when you were dying."

Passion red, pure white, impossible blue. Sleeping. He was sick with himself for saying it out loud, but it was true.

Everything was most beautiful when dying.

 

***

 

Red was next. Red sweet peas, red primroses. He had thought about a single red rose, but none of them came in pots, so he had decided to buy red sweet peas, and red primroses. Pots did not have any meaning, the lady had said, but for John it did. Pots meant life. Pots meant support. Pots meant _you are not alone, friends protect people_.

In any case, he had not been enough for Sherlock. Red on the pavement.

Pots were good. Pots meant that the flowers were not dying — if one forgot that everything from the day it was born was effectively dying — that they would go on, that the flowers would outlive both of them. The SIG in his coat's pocket was comfortably heavy against his chest.

He wondered at which state of decomposition Sherlock currently was, under his feet. Maybe the worms had already done most of their job, digging through the man's insides, eating away his brain, coming out of the holes in his skull where his eyes had been. Impossibly blue. Food for worms.

He wondered if they would let him sleep beside Sherlock, once it would have been done. Probably not. He would still find him, though. Once his organs would break down into molecules, once his molecules would break down into atoms. The earth moved slowly but in the right direction, and one day he would meet Sherlock, and they would mix and mix and mix until flowers would bloom from them.

John grinned. He had something to look forward too, after all.

"Thank you for a lovely time. I can't live without you."

Sweet peas and red primroses. That was what they meant. Just like the lady said at the store, before telling him that he was one of their best clients, and that he had a very, very lucky woman, to which he simply answered "He's dead." The seconds followed in utter and heavy silence.

He would probably have to find another store now. Not that it mattered anymore.

 

***

 

His head was heavy against the stone, and one moment later he was flying. Spiraling up or down, that he did not know, as he tried to catch unto something, seeing how the ground was ripping open under him, ripping open his shoulder at the same time. Red, white, blue. Pain. Screams in the distance. Suddenly he was at the corner of the building. On that day. Everything was the same but for the feeling in his guts, knowing how it was going to end. Maybe he could prevent it, this time. Maybe, just maybe he could catch him. He ran. He ran for his life and for the other. He extended his arms, waiting for the body to fall into them. The man also extended his arms. And fell.

 

And fell

 

 

 

And fell

 

 

 

And fell

 

 

and John (a pillow under his head) knew what would happen the crashing sound the skull breaking on the stone the black headstone in the cemetery waiting for a body for his body for the body sleeping on the pavement when it was cold and hard but instead he kept on falling kept on falling until

 

the wind caught in his hair his coat his fingers (a kiss on his forehead)

 

until the wind broke down his body into hundreds of petals

 

ir i s e s a y

 

    gar de ni asa w

 

           swee tpe a s w

f l e

d

                           p             ri m ro s esa n

 

 

***

 

John popped on his elbows, his breathing heavy. Baker Street. He was at Baker Street.

The thought was supposed to be comforting, but the last thing he had clearly remembered was his head against the cold headstone. And now, he was at Baker Street.

Someone had found him, apparently knew his address and had dropped him off in his old room, on the bed he had not slept in for days and days. Why didn't he wake up? He should have woken up.

Why wasn't he afraid? Everything was quiet. Felt peaceful.

His breathing hitched when he remembers the dream. He knew the nightmares would follow him, just like they did the first time, after the desert and the pain. John closed his eyes, remembering the man's skin wilting into flowers before he could catch him. It had been terribly, shockingly beautiful. Just like life itself. Just like the desert, and the pain, and the flowers, and his heart beating and beating. There was nothing more beautiful than warmth and a smile, and being heavy in his arms and suddenly John's eyes were flying open.

_Impossible._

There were dreams, and then there were not-dreams. His fingers traced a spot on his forehead, as if he could still feel it, the warmth and the smile pressing against his skin. He had been brought home by a dead man. He had slept in a dead man's arms. How could that be?

Downstairs, a door hissed and closed.

John was on his feet, searching for his SIG. It took five seconds too long before he realized it was not there and he knew perfectly why.

He ran down the stairs, two by two, then down the other stairs, three by three.

He slammed the door open and looked at his left, and then his right, and only silence and darkness greated him.

After a few minutes, John went back upstairs. It was late. Mrs. Hudson had probably slept through the whole ordeal. He will go see her, tomorrow, and apologize. Maybe get on his phone and call Ella, too.

They will probably think he was crazy. He knew what happened. Even though he didn't really know how or why and it felt impossible, he knew what had just happened. (He looked lovely on the pavement because he was still alive.)

After a few minutes, he spotted it. Lying in the black armchair, a single piece of paper, folded in two. He went closer, reaching for it, opening it, gasping when everything he found inside was the confirmation of what he was just thinking. He did not need to know the language of flowers to understand perfectly well what this meant.

      A single forget-me-not.

He had found it. He had found it without looking for it. The most impossible blue.

 

John went back upstairs. He slept.

**Author's Note:**

> The language of flowers, in the order that they appear (they usually have multiple meanings, I chose the ones regarding the context of this ficlet) :
> 
> 1\. Irises : your friendship means so much to me ; faith ; hope.  
> 2\. Molly's chrysanthemums : you're a wonderful friend ; truth.  
> 3\. Lestrade's heather : protection ; admiration ; solitude.  
> 4\. Mrs. Hudson's lilies : Chinese emblem for mothers.  
> 5\. Mrs. Hudson's fern : confidence ; shelter.  
> 6\. Gardenias : you're lovely ; secret love.  
> 7\. Sweet peas : thank you for a lovely time ; good-bye ; departure.  
> 8\. Primroses : I can't live without you.  
> 9\. Single rose : I still love you.  
> 10\. Forget-me-not : memories ; true love. 
> 
> (All from this website: http://thelanguageofflowers.com/)


End file.
